


Five Times Peter Helped (And One Time He Didn't)

by dayse



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Kiss, Gen, Happy Birthday Peter Hale, Other, Peter Hale character study, a stubborn cannibal, bubbling green goop, dramatic rescues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayse/pseuds/dayse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter wants to help. Sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chris

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to jcjoeyfreak for being the best beta in the world! I probably never would have posted without her approval.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://daysecraze.tumblr.com).

\----- 

"So at any point in the evening is something actually going to happen? As pleasant as the company of you and this mishmash of misfit dullard teenagers has been, some of us have things we’d rather be doing. Like laundry.” 

"Don't. Talk to me."

Peter has been bothering Chris all night and he’s not even a little bit sorry. He’s bored, feeling antagonistic, and watching the vein on the side of Chris’ head throb as his jaw clenches harder and harder with each passing moment has been the only enjoyable part of this whole outing. It’s nice to know he hasn’t lost his touch.

And really, this is all Derek’s fault anyway. It was Derek that had contacted Peter earlier that day, somehow conveying through text all the petulant and resentful silence Peter would be treated to if he declined to go in Derek’s place as the stand-in token werewolf of the group for the night. And as reluctant as Peter may have been to acknowledge it, he’d become used to the tentative truce he and Derek had recently found and wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.

Peter doesn’t even know where Scott is, but he suspects Derek is behind his absence, too, since not only does this whole night seem like an exercise in futility (boring futility), but it also feels like some kind of test. Scott and Derek were probably together somewhere, bonding over the burdens and responsibilities of being an alpha. Please. All their noble teeth gnashing made Peter want to gag. 

Meanwhile, Chris had been sticking to Peter’s side like they were on a date all night, no doubt expecting Peter to turn on them at any moment, ripping out throats and rending fresh. Which was ridiculous because Peter was wearing his favourite jacket and he wasn’t about to do anything messy. But four hours (four hours, Peter could have watched half a season of Downton Abbey during that time) of Peter making sarcastic comments, not-so-subtle digs at Chris’ appearance and age and the uselessness of everything and everyone, and Chris has apparently had enough. 

Peter gives Chris’ retreating back a snide, somewhat sarcastic smile and watches him approach his daughter and rest a hand briefly against her back. It makes him think about Cora and his smile drops, feeling ... well. Peter isn’t sure. The neat little boxes he keeps his feelings in are temporarily unavailable as he crosses his arms over his chest and lets his weight lean heavily against the tree he stands under.

The truth is Chris always makes Peter feel somewhat like a kid again and not a little off his game. He just wants to irritate the man, annoy him, get under his skin. Peter has enough objectivity to recognize there’s a degree of pigtail-pulling to it, but he’ll be damned if he lingers on that too long. As a result the whole night has left Peter feeling on-edge and irritable, his guard wavering. If Peter had known Chris would be part of this useless little field trip, he’d have stayed at home and just dealt with Derek’s resulting silent treatment. Which was probably exactly why Derek had ‘forgotten’ to mention it when he’d made his little request. The sneaky bastard.

The sun has barely touched down between the trees when something of interest finally decides to happen, namely the ground around the Nemeton splitting open and revealing the green somewhat gelatinous sludge underneath. There’s a brief moment of stunned silence before everyone gasps and takes a step back, except Peter who is still leaning against his tree, trying not (okay not really trying at all) to feel smug. He had called the whole ‘let’s investigate Lydia’s strange ramblings about the Nemeton’ thing being a clusterfuck waiting to happen from the start, but nobody ever listened to him and this is what always happened.

Well, maybe not this specifically but the situationally disastrous equivalent anyway. He doesn’t even know what Lydia said but apparently she’d been super chatty lately, leading the gang all around Beacon Hills from one wacky adventure to another. No thank you, Peter can think of better ways to pass his evenings, none of which involve any of these people. Or ominous cursed tree stumps.

The swampy green ... goop oozing and bleeding up through the now sizeable crack in the ground is somewhat foul smelling and it makes Peter’s nose wrinkle even from a safe distance. So maybe he can’t say he saw it coming but he can’t say he didn’t see it coming either. Every once in a while a fat, slow bubble expands and pops from the goop’s surface.

Everyone takes a moment to be disgusted before the ground rumbles ominously again. Lydia is holding a fashionably gloved hand over her nose and mouth and Peter can practically feel the distaste radiating off her.

“Hey let me just throw this idea out there: why don’t we go? Let’s just go and assume this whole earth-opening-up-snot-pool-party thing resolves itself,” Stiles says because he’s never said anything in three words he couldn’t say in twenty.

Peter doesn’t disagree though.

In fact, he’s already straightened up and is getting ready to leave (even Derek couldn't expect him to do anything about this mess, he’s not a goddamn botanist) when the ground cracks again, this crack meeting the first crack and now it’s not just a crack but a big gaping hole about the size of a plastic kiddie pool. A kiddie pool filled with snotty green ooze. And Peter isn’t sure how it happens, he thinks someone starts to fall and someone else tries to stop them, but it all ends with Chris of all people falling in with an aborted shout and one arm swiping dramatically through the air as he tries to right himself. He smacks onto the surface of the sludge with a wet thwack before it's enveloping him like a glue and Peter watches, fascinated, as it closes around Chris’ face, startled blue eyes shutting with his mouth just as he disappears completely beneath the surface.

“Dad!” 

There’s a moment of panic as everyone runs around trying to decide what to do and whether or not the stuff’s corrosive. It isn't, Peter can tell that much. He’s pretty sure they’d all be gazing at a rather fragrant Chris Argent soup by now if it was. Allison seems rather frantic regardless and Peter takes a moment to enjoy it all from a safe distance. 

It’s the little moments in life that have to be savoured: A good cup of coffee, a compliment from a stranger, a soothing sunset. 

Your arch nemesis falling ass over tea kettle into a bog of bubbling green ... whatever it is. 

But when the stupid teenagers start to reach into it to pull Chris out, Peter sighs, walks over and nudges Allison aside before she can do anything stupid. “No, no. Allow me.” If Chris had been capable of swimming out on his own than he would have and everyone can plainly see his dim outline just below the surface. Which meant that it was more likely Allison would just get stuck or pulled in herself if she tried to pull Chris out rather than accomplish anything productive. Not that Peter would be particularly heartbroken if that were to happen (two Argents dead in one evening - talk about productive), but he has a feeling Derek wouldn’t be too pleased with him if he didn’t at least try something useful.

Crouching over the hole, Peter sniffs delicately again before taking off his coat and handing it to Stiles who takes it with a confused blink. He rolls up his sleeves and plucks the tips of his fingers in first, testing it out. It was a little on the cool side, despite the bubbling, and has a sticky feel to it. He can feel the goop trying to pull him in further, straining at his fingers and it is only with some effort he is able to pull them back out. Slowly. Any faster and he’s quite sure they would have been dislocated at the first knuckle. He doubts a regular person would have been able to do so at all.

Peter plays with the idea of leaving Chris to it. All things considered it’s not the worst way for a hunter to die in Beacon Hills. Peter could be doing Chris a favour really: suffocation was almost tame at this point in their lives. But everyone is looking at him expectantly and Allison is crying and just about nothing is more annoying than a crying teenager. Even ruining his new Armani shirt. Besides, if Peter saves Chris’ life, Chris will owe him and Peter can rub it in for years.

That cheers him up considerably and Peter plunges his arms in up to the biceps, the goop clinging to him eagerly. It’s quite remarkable, how it hugs his arms, wanting to pull him in, wanting to devour him. The ground and the flame, his two homes away from home: always so fucking welcoming. He plants his knees firmly to the ground for leverage and makes a face as another bubble rises to the surface and pops loudly.

After some blind feeling he grabs the lapels of Chris’ jacket and starts to slowly and carefully pull him up. It’s a meticulous process that Peter starts feeling annoyed by rather quickly. Peter wonders if Chris’ embarrassing little trip into the ‘snot pool party’ was the danger Lydia’s vision had meant. But if she had never had the vision in the first place they never would have come out into the woods to begin with and Chris never would have fallen in. Most likely.

Banshees. They’re nothing but trouble.

“Don’t you think you should be doing that faster? You know, before he suffocates?” Stiles says and before Peter can reply it’s Lydia of all people who does, irritation in her voice.

“Sure if he wants to rip Allison’s dad in half or dislocate both his shoulders. The green stuff around his body must be packed in really tight, holding him in, like quicksand.” 

Peter doesn’t stop what he’s doing but he does give Lydia a brief look. Not a smile but approving in his own way.

Several minutes later, Allison is near hysteria and Chris’ face breaks the surface. He doesn’t take in a gasping mouthful of air like Peter had hoped so that is a little disappointing. “Someone wipe his face off,” he says, and Allison’s hand shoots out to do just that, wiping the green stuff off his nose and mouth, causing his lips to part. Okay then. Well. Peter leans in and presses his mouth over Chris’s, lets out a few gusts of breath. The green, not-quite-smelly goop tastes more mossy than expected. It’s not completely unpleasant.

Stiles sounds like he might be choking on something. Peter thinks this night is turning out to be a lot more fun than he thought it’d be.

Then Chris coughs a wad of goop into Peter’s face and Peter nearly drops him right back into it.


	2. Lydia

\----

They’ve been trapped in the basement for nearly three hours and the darkness would be complete if not for the shaky orange flame from Stiles’ lighter, golden and warm, smelling faintly of butane. If Peter listens carefully he can make out the sounds of his nephew and Chris moving around two floors above them, trying to get to them before their captors return. If they’re speaking, Peter can’t hear it, and he wonders just how much trouble the mountain ash in the walls will give them. Peter can practically feel Derek’s frustration over not being able to just smash his way through the cement walls to get to them.

It’s one of the duller Scooby Doo adventures Peter’s been dragged into and he stands off to the side by himself, one shoulder propped against the cement wall, picking his nails and trying not to breathe in through his nose though the smells invade anyway. It’s all smoke and dead embers.

At the distinct click of Lydia’s double-strapped turquoise shoes (they make her ankles look oddly boney but Peter isn’t able to share that type of helpful advice anymore since the patent leather red handbag incident of 3 and 1/2 weeks ago), Peter looks up to see her shuffling along the cement wall, her hand trailing carefully over it to feel her way as if searching for something. Every once in a while the toe of her shoe taps at the ground, brushing aside dirt and gravel and the small burnt branches that are everywhere. It’s a dry crumbling sound that intensifies the smell of ash in the air and sets Peter’s teeth on edge, his skin prickling. Peter decides she must be looking for a place to sit, her unflattering shoes no doubt uncomfortable as well.

It’s been a good three hours and the air is stale and Peter’s painfully aware of how slow each minute, each second seems to be passing. In the dark, it’s far too easy to get lost in his own thoughts, to brood. And as he stands there the one thought that keeps rising to the surface is: what is he doing here?

Peter’s life has always had direction, a purpose. Before the fire it had been about ambition and power, reading all he could get his hands on and absorbing absolutely everything. He remembers vividly entire weeks holed up in the Hale library, reading volume after dusty volume, his fingertips getting cut on paper edges as sharp and quick as blades and then healing too fast for it to matter. Talia would bring him meals to make sure he ate, scrunch her fingers against the hair on the back of his head before leaving him again, all without saying a word. That was when things had still been good between them.

After the fire he’d had his need for revenge and it had been everything, the only thing. He’d felt that glorious fire rise up inside of him, bloom and explode until his agony and rage had found a release in death. Theirs and his. It had been the second-most terrible moment of his life, but incredible as well. It had been worth it. A thousand lifetimes to do it again and again and it would always be worth it.

But now he was trapped in a basement with a bunch of yappy, mewling teenagers who were chatting incessantly about such gripping topics as _lacrosse_ and _homework_ , while his imbecilic nephew bumbled around upstairs, trying to break them out of a trap set by - of all things - witches. It’s downright embarrassing and Peter doesn’t know what he was doing with his life anymore.

_What the fuck am I doing here?_

He supposes he could just kill everyone. The thought makes him smile and he decides ... yes, he could definitely just kill everyone.

He’d kill Scott first, since he was the alpha and would likely pose the biggest challenge. Allison might have been a threat if she’d been armed or capable of seeing in the dark, but that was a non-issue. And killing a True Alpha had to give him some bonus points, even if he couldn't take Scott's power.

Then he’d kill Allison, since she would not take seeing her boyfriend’s throat slashed open very well. She’d be easy enough. Like most Argent females she seemed to have a vast overestimation of her own abilities when it came to fighting wolves. A tragic flaw in a hunter.

Lydia would have to be next, to put her out of her misery if nothing else. A banshee never did well in these situations, so Peter would practically be doing her a favour. But if he wasn't feeling lazy he might try and get some answers out of her first.

He’d kill Stiles last and take his lighter. It was a pretty nice lighter.

And when Derek and Argent finally reached them and opened the door to a room full of dead, bloody teenagers ... well, the looks on their faces alone would be worth his imminent death that would undoubtedly follow. He’d at least have a few moments of silence to enjoy between all the screaming and carnage and the double-barrel shotgun shell to his face.

Peter senses Lydia nearby before he hears or smells her and he’s surprised she’s gotten so close without his noticing. He suppresses a shiver when a small, light hand brushes his arm; in the dark it feels like she has too many fingers, spread onto his sleeve like an over-sized spider. Peter feels a curl of uneasiness at the realization that it was _him_ Lydia had been looking for, seeking him out in this dark place whether she had realized it or not.

But her face is calm and placid, her expression curious, and Peter looks down at her and lets his eyes glow, blue and cold in the darkness. She pulls back quickly, her mouth drawing into a straight line. Peter thinks briefly of brushing his thumb over it.

She wants to move away but isn’t sure of which direction to go. She hasn’t been participating in the conversation with the others and Peter can hear her heart beating in a quick staccato. Bad memories. Bad memories of him reaching out for her in the dark, closing the vice on her mind. Her sanity. She smells like the delicate little flowers that grow on the terrace of her house (not the ones he planted in her head, but the real ones). She smells like Ivory soap. It’s an innocent smell. Peter stares for a moment more at the straight firm mouth, the jut of her chin, her eyes staring ahead and away from him. Lydia Martin: made of more steel than most people give her credit for.

No one observing this scene would ever mistake him for anything other than the monster in the dark. It's what he's been for a very long time, even to himself, and for a moment Peter fears he will see himself huddled in some corner, burned half to nothing, the flames rising up around him. When Peter was in his coma he often felt he was in several places at once, and was several versions of himself at once, all battling each other, all screaming for revenge, comfort, his family. For Laura. For Derek.

Anyone.

Sometimes Peter feels like he’s still screaming. Six years of old habits die hard.

Silence lingers between them before Lydia suddenly stiffens and reaches out again, her hand hovering by his sleeve before she snatches it with her fingers and Peter stills himself, an uneasiness settling over his entirety. Peter notices her gaze has become distant and blank; her lips are moving, forming words, and even Peter must lean in to hear them. Lydia’s whisper, soft and sweet, brushes the shell of his ear:

“We’ll come for you, Peter.”

Peter straightens abruptly from the wall where he’d been slouched and Lydia shuffles back a step, her lips parting with a quick breath. He wonders if banshees saw in riddles, if they were aware of the cryptic bullshit they spouted or if it was just a whole lot of poetic license. Either way, Peter feels he should know better by now than to take it at face value.

He stares at her for a moment, wonders if she even realizes what she’s said. He takes off his coat and spreads it on the floor, the lining up, lets it fall over the dirt, and stones, and burnt wood. When he reaches out and takes her wrist, her hand clenches but she doesn’t pull away and she looks up to where she thinks his eyes might be, invisible to her now, human. Ish.

“Have a seat,” Peter says as he guides her, watches as she hesitates before crouching down slowly, her fingers feeling out for his coat before pausing again. Then she sits, a look of relief crossing her face, and she unclenches her hand as Peter lets go and steps away.

And Peter doesn’t have to look up to see glowing red eyes, narrow and unblinking, watching him in the dark. 


	3. Scott

\----

Interestingly enough, he’s the one to find Scott first. He hadn’t even been looking very hard.

Even more interesting (but smart, practical even) is the look of non-relief on Scott’s face when Peter steps into view, cementing the title of cleverest little alpha pup. But then Scott’s deceptive C-student intelligence had always been one of the reasons Peter liked him, bland morality and all.

The hunters have taken a good chunk out of Scott’s torso, which Scott is valiantly trying to hold together, to make sure all his squishy little inner bits stay inner, and left him to bleed out in the woods. It’s stupid, even by hunter standards, but Peter can see why they thought him good as dead. Either that or they had been scared off and if that is the case Peter is not interested in sticking around to see what could have sent a throng of bloodthirsty hunters running.

Blood is splattered about the small clearing where Scott is collapsed, staining the leaves and grass black in the moonlight, the smell mingling with dew and moss. Amazingly, Scott is still upright with one hand clutching his side and the other propped on the ground to keep him up. His heart beats like a jungle drum, his breath heavy with struggle, each gasp a fight.

It reminds Peter of the night he killed Jennifer, how the blood had sprayed out prettily like a child’s painting. In Scott’s current state, a child could very well finish him off. But there are no children here, only Peter.

Peter steps delicately over rocks and blood, taking his time, Scott’s small whimpers filling the clearing, sounds he holds back as best he can but can’t quite stifle. Admirable, as his pain must be immense.

When he is close, Peter folds his legs into a fluid crouch, his coat rustling around him. Scott is sweating, his eyes switching between red and brown, his mouth open to bare a hint of fang. There is blood on the inside of his lips. Peter sniffs but detects no poison, no wolfsbane. These hunters are amateurs. Ignorant men and women with guns and numbers. A seasoned wolf would not have been so easily caught.

Still, a wounded animal is also dangerous and Peter keeps a healthy caution about him, staying just a little out of reach.

“If you haven’t already figured it out,” Peter starts, his eyes flicking down to Scott’s side, “you’ll live. That is if you’re given proper time to heal. Let’s hope no one comes along and interrupts that, hm?”

Scott makes frustrated sounds, shifts on his hand and nearly falls, already angry and Peter hasn’t even done anything yet, just made an observation. People always assume the worst. Peter watches Scott struggle to talk, to form words, but he can’t quite do more than the occasional, wet garble. Perhaps his throat is full of blood. Interesting.

“We’re built durable,” Peter continues as he reaches into his coat pocket and delicately withdraws a handkerchief. “We’re survivors. Some of the oldest survivors,” Peter dabs at Scott’s bloody chin and mouth with the clean fabric, he’s gotten a little dribbly, and continues conversationally, “did you know that cavemen drew half-man, half-wolf figures on their walls? They feared them, hunted them, and some even worshiped them. Our ancestors, Scott, go back a very long ways.”

Peter continues to try and clean Scott up but it seems a fruitless endeavour, Scott just keeps bleeding everywhere and is not being very co-operative anyway. Honestly, Peter is only trying to help. It’s not like Scott would really appreciate grooming at this time and regurgitation is just out of the question. He gives Scott’s cheek one more swipe before he folds the handkerchief in two and puts it back into his pocket. Next to his cellphone.

“I’m actually glad we have this time together, Scott, I feel like we never talk anymore and, if you’ll excuse a little arrogance on my part, I think I can teach you a few things.”

Now Scott does speak and Peter stops to listen. It’s a surprisingly steady voice, even if it is more blood than words. “Nothing I want to learn.”

“That's hurtful, Scott.”

Scott’s eyes flutter closed, his head drooping, but he does not fall and Peter takes a moment to admire, again, the resolve it must be taking to keep himself up. To not give into the temptation to sink to the ground. But it’s not for himself. No, self-preservation is not what makes Scott McCall a survivor. It’s fascinating. Honourable. Mildly stupid.

“W-what. Do you want.” There’s a very slight tremor in his voice and Scott’s shaking, the blood loss leaving him cold and pale. The ground around him is wet with it and his hand is slipping.

A few moments pass in silence before Peter leans in slowly, letting his face draw close to Scott’s so that Scott may feel Peter’s breath on his cheek. “What I want is what I’ve always wanted...” He lets the words linger, watches Scott’s eyes flick to him in a nervous but unblinking way, and Scott’s heart quickens with something Peter would be a fool to underestimate. Peter lifts his hand, brushes the backs of his fingers from the edge of Scott’s mouth across his cheek, leaving three perfect streaks of blood. Scott’s eyes glow red enough to burn and Peter feels it deeply, the light planting roots inside of him.

“... to help.” He clasps his hand down on the back of Scott’s neck, a steady unbreakable grip, and wraps his other around the wrist Scott has on the ground. Scott struggles (of course he does), but Peter is firm. This will happen.

Even as a beta, even as an omega, Peter has always been strong, stronger than most. He’s had to be.

Peter takes the pain. As much of it as he can. Scott stops fighting when he realizes what Peter is doing, when the relief outweighs his pride. Maybe later Scott will feel disgust at himself for accepting help from the likes of Peter Hale but right then, Peter knows, it’s a ‘no brainer’. Peter’s offering a way out of his suffering and only an idiot would reject that.

It’s a strange, floaty feeling Peter has as Scott becomes limper in his grasp, his whimpers dying out. His veins burn with the pain he’s taking, his own grasp shaken, and he’s aware that Scott is collapsing toward him, his head against Peter’s chest. When Peter has taken all he can, he stops and they both take a gasp of breath, exerted. Scott is still slumped against him, weak but starting to breathe normally, his bleeding slowed. As if controlled by something else, Peter watches his own arm move to wrap loosely around Scott’s back, holding him steady. He’s an alpha, yes, but he is also a boy, a child, who up until a moment ago was injured worse than he had ever been and all alone. And despite Peter’s earlier words Scott could very well have thought he was dying. There had been a time not too long ago when such things would have mattered to Peter.

“You’ll live,” Peter says again, just in case Scott missed it the first time, and is a bit surprised by the care in his own voice.

Flashlight beams cut through the darkness and Peter can hear footsteps running their way, Derek at the front of them, no doubt following the scent of blood. Peter glances in their direction and when he looks back Scott is staring up at him. Brown eyes. Human eyes.

“Thank you.”


	4. Stiles

\----

This. This exact scenario, is why Peter opts to stay home most of the time: injured, possibly dying (again), in pain, and trapped. With Stiles.

“Uhhhhh.”

“Just ... stop. You can’t help me, just stop.” Peter shifts on his ass, attempts to position himself more comfortably but everything hurts. He’s not bleeding or broken, but his insides are ablaze, his limbs uncooperative. It feels like there is liquid fire running through his veins.

Peter wonders why he’s even surprised anymore, it always comes down to fire for him in the end.

“I can try pushing again.”

“Yeah,” Peter says and is unable to keep some mocking out of his voice (he’s not dead yet). “You do that.” After escaping the ‘shaman with the attitude problem’ as Stiles put it and running into a small, concrete shed in the woods for cover (filled with dried up paint cans but nothing truly helpful like an axe or, say, a chainsaw), there had been a loud cracking sound followed by a crash. Stiles had managed to get the door open just enough to see that a large, inconvenient tree had fallen right in front of their little shed, effectively blocking the only way out. There wasn’t even an undersized window to give them false hope and Peter wasn’t sure but he thought he could hear the sound of pesky shaman laughter somewhere in the distance.

It was shortly after that Peter realized he could no longer stand and decided collapsing dramatically against the wall would be the best option.

And now Stiles is hovering.

“ _What_?” Peter snaps. Stiles’ expression is pinched, tense, his hands hover like he wants to touch Peter and Peter swears if he does he will use the last of his strength to rip them off and beat Stiles over the head with them. His vision doubles briefly, and suddenly there are way too many Stileses with way too many hands. “Why are you looking at me like that, you’re not the one that was smacked with - with -

“A big, black, phallic walking stick?” Stiles offers.

“Shut up.”

And Peter must really look like shit or Stiles has suddenly remembered all those creatively messy bodies they’ve found in recent days, because his jaw shuts with a click and his mouth forms a straight line. Snarky comment not included.

Peter shuts his eyes, lets his head thunk gently back against the cement wall and wills himself to feel no pain. He spent six years attempting to do just that before he had eventually just embraced it, accepted it. But right now he finds himself too tired. Besides which he had motivation then, a goal. Right now he has nothing. He hears Stiles get up from next to him and approach the door again, throwing his weight against it a few times, but other than that there’s silence. Peter comforts himself with the fact that while no one out there gives a damn about him they do care about Stiles and they will work to rescue him - rescuing Peter by default.

But right now there’s only pain and helplessness, two things Peter has definitely had his fill of in this life. Peter wishes wolves could take their own pain but it’s never been that easy, which is all the shame. There are several instances Peter can think of when that particular ability would have been beneficial.

Sudden cursing causes Peter to open his eyes again and the room spins so aggressively he catches his breath. When his eyes focus, Stiles is kicking at the door in frustration and Peter feels .... something. Gratitude maybe. Whether it’s just for show or not, hey - he’s trying. “Can you stop that racket, I’m trying to die peacefully over here.” His voice sounds drained even to his own ears.

“You know that defeatist attitude isn’t very attractive.”

“I’m always attractive.”

Stiles snorts and glares resentfully at the blocked door for a moment before he asks: "Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Dress like a 25-year-old French prostitute, I mean you do know that you’re supposed to wear a t-shirt under that sweater, right?” Stiles snarks, his eyes narrow and intent as he stares at Peter, trying to read him. He puffs out a breath before muttering, “You know what." But Peter is impassive, his expression bland. "You took that hit. It was meant for me. But you got in front and it was just uncharacteristically sacrificial."

Peter shuts his eyes again. Partially because it seems to help with the pain, but also so he doesn't have to look at him. At least Stiles has the decency to have some suspicion, too. Peter doesn’t think he can deal with earnest gratitude right then. "Is that what I did? Must have tripped."

"Bullshit." Stiles shuffles closer, disturbing more dust and Peter winces in anticipation when Stiles crouches by him again. "It's because you knew it'd just kill me, isn’t it, like it did those others. But with you maybe ... maybe there'd be time ... "

It's not wrong. The more time Peter spends with these people the more reluctant he is to let them just die by their own stupidity. It's incredibly inconvenient and requires a lot more work than looking the other way, but it's almost like Peter can't help himself anymore. Of course, he really hadn't anticipated the pain or helplessness that would come with this change of attitude. Or the fear. Peter resolves to go back to his indifferent ways if he gets through this alive. There's only so many times you can come back from the dead until it just doesn't take anymore and Peter figures he's chewed through a good portion of his 'second chances' at this point.

"What's your point," Peter sighs. "Do you have one? Do you EVER. Have one?" Peter hears it before he feels it, Stiles' heart notching up a beat or two and then the shifting around him before a hand falls tentatively over his. Peter opens his eyes and stares at Stiles in disbelief. Seriously?

Defensiveness flashes in Stiles' face. "Look, I know I don't have any wolfy superpowers or anything, but human contact can help in these type of situations okay?"

It's ridiculous. Peter feels ridiculous. And it doesn't help the pain at all. But Peter doesn't pull away. He tells himself it's because he doesn't have the strength to do so. He shuts his eyes instead, settles his head against the wall, Stiles' hand clasped around his, and loses time.

After a while things get better. The pain recedes and things start to get pleasantly dim and numb, the world becoming soft grey and overcast; fog settling over deep waters. There was no more pain, none at all, just a pleasant distance from everything, even himself. Especially himself. It wasn't like this was the first or second time Peter had died (he counts the fire as his first), there's no panic. Just a welcoming pull into nothing.

Peter is vaguely aware of someone saying his name, calling it over and over, a pressure on his hand and arm as its tugged and yanked. Then a flash of sensation across one cheek and then the other, followed by more yelling. Stiles probably. Peter's eyes flutter reluctantly open and settle on a panicked looking blur of colour hovering over him but it seems unimportant. Unnecessary. It's all far away now.

" - r! --- up! --- r --- tt --" It's like a bizarre kind of morse code and Peter, almost reluctantly, recognizes it for what it is. It's someone trying to bring him back, someone being assed enough to try, and Peter really must be getting sentimental because it actually seems to work. He blinks a few more times, feels his body fight the poison tainting it with a weak, but renewed sense of vigour. This would be a shitty way to die, he tells himself, no flare, no drama: just quietly into the good night and Peter's never been about quiet. Or good.

He forces his eyes to stay open and they stare at the blur of colour until it spins into something resembling a human face. He feels a hand clasp the side of jaw and neck, holding onto him like he's trying to keep him afloat. And maybe he is. Stiles looks worried.

It's touching, really, and fairly confusing. Peter doesn't understand it until Stiles says: "Scott told me what you did for him." He's babbling, talking in that quick urgent way that always gives Peter a bit of a headache. "How you helped him in the woods. I mean, yeah you fucked with him first, but you helped him and didn't try and kill him and for you that's like - Mother Teresa level charity. That's progress. It’s something." Stiles' hand slips behind Peter's neck and Peter realizes that at some point he's slid off the wall and onto his back and Stiles is trying to keep his head off the ground. "Is there something I can do? Tell me. Don't be all macho wolf about it."

Peter's not sure if all this backhanded flattery is meant for him to hear or not and he just mumbles in response. No, there's not a damn thing Stiles can do for him. Maybe if they get out of here soon, get to (even now Peter summons up a sneer of distaste) Deaton quickly, something can be done.

"... this doesn't mean I like you, it doesn't mean any of us like you, because that would be seriously boneheaded, and you probably don't want any of us to like you ... "

"Stiles."

"... what's up with that anyway? Who doesn't want to be liked, don't you get lonely? Don't you want friends ... "

“ _Stiles_.” Peter manages to put enough into his voice that Stiles stops, looks at him. “You want to help me?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, I mean - not if it’s anything weird ... but okay even if it’s something weird,” Stiles says, somewhat defeatedly, and Peter wonders what ‘weird’ thing Stiles thinks Peter could possibly have in mind in this situation. Really, Peter just wanted Stiles to shut up and let him lay there until he died or passed out, but now Peter can’t help himself.

“Kiss me.”

Stiles drops Peter’s head back onto the ground with a thump and Peter curses and Stiles babbles apologies as he reaches for him, one grubby hand crawling under his neck to lift him slightly again. “What? No! Are you kidding me, what the Hell will that do?”

The world spins for a moment, topsy turvy, back and forth and Peter can’t answer right away, his voice lost. It reminds him of those final moments outside the Hale house, so burned the pain had become a whole different entity outside of himself, like a monster fighting for control of his own body. Only there’s no pain right now, just a thickening numbness closing in around his heart. Hey, at least he got one last shot in, there’s that, right? Peter shuts his eyes, his ears feel muffled. The world dialed down to zero.

“Ah crap. Why’s it always kissing.”

Then he feels it: a soft, tentative brush against his lips that lingers for what seems like a very long time. Stiles is holding his breath.

And as he pulls back Peter opens his eyes, stares up at him, and wide eyes stare back. The moment draws out, then there’s a loud crack and crash as Derek breaks through the concrete wall next to them, sending rock and rubble flying, shouting out Peter’s name.


	5. Derek

\----

Peter opens his hand and lets drop a pulpy fleshy clump from his fist, watches as it hits the ground with a wet plop. He can feel the sticky bits under his claws and knows he’ll be smelling it for days no matter how thoroughly he washes, and he reaches into his jacket pocket with his clean hand to dig out his handkerchief. He knew it had been a good idea to stockpile them.

A few feet away, Derek stands in a small patch of moonlight that bleeds through the trees, looking rumpled but grimly satisfied as well, a scratch under his eye healing in a slow sluggish way. One side of his hair is matted and flat against his skull, his neck dirty with the blood that has dribbled down. Peter notices his jacket is new and wonders how mad Derek would be if Peter were to ‘borrow’ it and never give it back.

“Think there are any more?”

“Hm?” Peter looks down at the dead thing at his feet, the last erks of its blood seeping in soil, dampening the ground. But that was life: one minute you’re an ancient, 450 year old cannibal, the next you’re fertilizer. “Unlikely. They’re not very social creatures so they travel alone. It’s the cannibalism, it’s hard for them to make friends.”

Derek grunts and Peter thinks it might actually contain a modicum of amusement but it’s hard to say. Peter may have gotten better at interpreting some of Derek’s more enigmatic grunts, glares, and eyebrow twitches as of late but he’s hardly an expert. It’s more of a hobby anyway, Peter doesn’t really care.

“You have the shovels?”

Peter gives Derek a look at that and goes over to a nearby tree where two shovels are waiting. The two shovels Derek had made Peter carry from the car into the woods while they tracked the anthropophagus down (Peter’s been calling it anthy in his head for short, it just rolls off the tongue better).

Derek takes one of the shovels, Peter keeps the other, and together they silently decide on a spot and start digging.

It’s not the funnest way to spend his first birthday since waking up from a six-year-long coma and crawling out of his own grave, but he supposes it beats the alternative. Peter was just going to have dinner in his favourite restaurant, drink a $700 bottle of wine, and binge-watch House of Cards anyway. Hell, if they finish this up in the next couple of hours, he could still do at least two of those things.

After a few minutes of quiet digging, the sounds and motions of which are bizarrely calming and unnerving at the same time, Peter asks, “So where are the others? Chasing down warlocks? Vampire clans ravaging the countryside? _El chupacabra?_ ”

“They have a biology midterm tomorrow.” At the incredulous thunk of Peter’s shovel digging into the ground, Derek looks up, eyebrows knitted together in a little arch. “It’s worth 20% of their final grade.”

Derek’s expression is way too innocent for Peter to take seriously, especially when he ducks his head down to continue his digging, in a way Peter suspects is trying to conceal amusement.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Peter says, but Derek doesn’t reply, seemingly intent on what he’s doing. Peter glances back at their dead little cannibal friend before he returns to it as well.

The ground is moist and sweet smelling, even if it’s somewhat musky with blood (or whatever that reddish-black stuff that had come out of anthy was), and it doesn’t take long before they’ve dug their way into a 4 foot hole.

“You know,” Peter says, “it would be a shame if the Sheriff’s department happened by right now. Don’t they usually do patrols in this area of the woods?”

Derek glares at him and starts to dig faster, dirt flying out of the hole and landing with heavy thumps outside. Soon they’ve dug a neat, 8 foot hole that any bloodthirsty ancient cannibal would be proud to call their final resting place.

After tossing their shovels out, Derek crouches slightly to cup his hands together to give Peter a boost up, then accepts Peter’s hand when he extends it down into the hole after him. Together, they grab either side of the messily dead cannibal and toss him unceremoniously into the grave before they start shoveling the dirt back over him.

As worst birthdays go, Peter figures this one still doesn’t break his top 10.

They have just finished tossing the last clump of dirt onto the grave when they hear it: a low, muffled, grumbly sound before the ground vibrates ominously. Peter and Derek share a look and heft their shovels up together just as a bloody, dirty hand shoots out of the dirt and claws at the air.

It’s just so annoying. Peter hates it when these things just can’t take a hint. “Can’t anybody in this town stay dead?” he says and ignores Derek’s dry look as he brings the shovel down with a loud clang, smashing the arm back against the ground and feeling a satisfying crunch of bone against the steel.

Still, it continues to move, a disjointed hand on a bent wrist flapping around before the other arm shoots up to join the first, feeling and groping around. Peter will give ol’anthy this much: he is _determined_ to eat their brains.

“We should let him come up,” Peter suggests as he takes a step back, “then we can finish him off.”

Derek seems to consider this for a moment then shrugs and steps back so they can stand together, their shovels dug into the ground and their hands resting on the handles, to watch the anthropophagus struggle slowly but determinedly through the loose dirt to get at them.

“I thought you destroyed the brain,” Peter says conversationally.

“I thought you destroyed the brain.”

Peter considers that for a moment before making an ‘oh well’ face, but thinks Derek might be right, he vaguely remembers agreeing to take care of that part. After a few more minutes pass, the only sound being the grunts and frustrated gurgles of their stubborn grave-bound friend, Peter feels Derek watching him and turns to look at him. “What?”

Derek stares for a few seconds more before he shrugs and turns his attention forward again. “Just surprised you showed up tonight. You know. After last time.”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to make a non-verbal snorting sound of distaste. “Oh, you mean how I nearly died in a _shed_ for - “ Peter shudders, “ _Stiliniski_? You’re right. I should have stayed at home.” What had Peter been thinking anyway? Doing such stupid sacrificial acts of heroism was really more Scott’s thing, or Derek’s. No, thank you. Peter prefers life. His own life.

It’s an uncomfortable, unsettling feeling Peter has though when he thinks about how he very nearly _did_ say no to come out that night. He’d had plans for tonight, after all, as boring and ‘safe’ as they were, and it’s not like Derek would have wasted much time in trying to convince him if he had said no. No, his stupid nephew would have just come out into the woods alone with only a shovel and his own stupidity for company. And what would that have gotten him? A midnight snack for some ancient undead cannibal who didn’t know when to stay down.

It had nearly happened anyway since Derek had gotten the great idea to ‘split up and cover more ground’ and Peter had come across them just as the thing was standing over a semi-conscious Derek ready to eat him alive before Peter tackled him, sending them rolling down a hill for what seemed like a week. And if Peter hadn’t been there, if Peter had said ‘fuck off, Derek’ to watch Netflix and eat pizza and drink wine, Peter would have had to live the rest of his life without his stupid nephew to annoy and the knowledge he could have come with him, that some careless, offhand intervention on his part could have saved Derek’s reckless little life.

The absolute worst part is it’s a feeling that is starting to extend to people other than Derek. It irritates him in a deep, frustrating, and what must be obvious way because Derek looks over at him with his eyebrow raised and that clueless/’whatever can be wrong, uncle Peter?’ expression that Peter refuses to believe is anything other than a put-on.

But right about then the upper half of the anthr - ah fuck it, it’s a zombie, it’s a fucking zombie! - bursts through the earth like some kind of demented spring flower and Derek and Peter move forward together, shovels raised, and smash it into the ground with gusto, splattering blood and bone. Whatever leaks out of its head could, safely, be considered close enough to brains to count as a perma-kill, and it slumps forward to be still again, half out of its own grave.

Burying it goes much faster the second time around, the earth loose and easy to move. Although, granted, at this point they probably could have buried the thing in a bucket and have been done with it.

“Ah, it’s ah ... it just smells awful,” Peter says and Derek wrinkles his nose with quiet dignity in response.

A half hour later they’re back at Derek’s car, standing over his open trunk where a heavy tarp and several garbage bags lay open. Peter drops his shovel inside and after a moment of consideration, his blood spattered jacket as well. Thankfully his shirt is more or less okay, but his pants are another lost cause. It’s a shame because Peter looked great in them.

Derek’s shovel clanks down on top of his before he reaches up to slam his trunk shut.

“This has just been a delight, Derek,” Peter says sarcastically, “seriously. Thank you for including me. Now if you don’t mind, please drive me home so I can shower, eat a disgustingly fatty meal, then cry myself to sleep.”

Derek pauses like he’s thinking this all over before he reaches up to touch his head wound, which by now is fully healed but is still making his hair stick up in a ridiculous way. “Pizza?”

No, Derek, that’s your head. Then Peter realizes Derek’s either offering or inviting himself over and furrows his brow in confusion. “Yes,” he says slowly, “most likely.”

“Okay, I like pizza.” Derek walks around to the driver’s side and opens the door, folding himself inside before Peter comes to his senses and gets into the car as well. “But my place.”

Peter just eyes Derek warily, wondering what brought this on, but he isn’t about to argue. It might even be ... well, no, not nice. But it’d be something.

Derek starts the car and he looks over at Peter with the barest hint of a smile that makes Peter pause. In the reflected light of the car’s headlights he can see the splatter of blood on Derek’s face. “Happy birthday.”


	6. Peter

\----

_“Happy birthday.”_

The seven blue and white candles on the cake flicker in the dark as the Hales smile indulgently at Peter who is thinking very hard about his wish. He doesn’t really believe in wishing on fire for things he wants but Peter’s not going to take any chances, this only happens once a year and if any wishes have a chance of coming true it’s the birthday ones.

Peter doesn’t want things other boys his age might want: skateboards, basketballs, new running shoes. The Hales are affluent (fortunate, his mother calls it, implying that it is all something that could be lost at any moment) and while his dad is obsessed with ‘earning’ things and building character, they have never been very good at denying their children anything. No, what Peter wants is more intangible, something for inside of himself rather than anything that could be bought in a store.

Peter wants to stop being so angry all the time. It makes people look at him strangely, and his parents walk on eggshells around him. They hardly even punish him anymore and that had been fun at first, but now it just makes him feel like a freak, something to be handled delicately like his mother’s crystal figurines. But Peter’s not breakable, he’s not fragile. Peter’s strong.

A soft, light hand falls against the back of his head and Peter looks up, sees Talia smiling at him bathed in the glow of his birthday candles. Peter smiles back and feels some of his nerves ease. Talia always knows how to touch him just right and he bows his head when her hand slips gently to his neck, her fingertips brushing the nape of it.

“Make a wish, Peter,” she says. “A good one.”

Peter nods, huffs in a big breath and blows out in one long gust, extinguishing all seven little bobs of light and plunging the room into darkness.

It gets colder and Peter’s abilities are still developing so he can’t see in the dark very well just yet. His family have become shadows, outlines, and Peter’s not sure why but they almost seem to be dancing. Talia’s hand slips away from his skin, leaving gooseflesh in her wake, and she disappears into the darkness as well.

“Talia,” Peter whispers, not sure why his mom or dad haven’t turned the lights back on yet or why no one has spoken or clapped. You were supposed to clap after the candles got blown out. He asks the first thing that comes to mind, to the only person he wants to hear the answer from: “Talia, why did we have to do this in the basement?”

Talia’s voice comes from all around him, tethered to nothing, “Peter, sweetheart. You know why.”

“No,” Peter says, shaking his head, shaking all over. The shadows of his family continue to dance and jerk around him. “I don’t know why.”

“Tonight’s the eclipse. It’s okay, we’ll be safe here. We’ll all be safe.”

“No,” Peter says again. “No, they’ll burn us all to the ground.” He’s said it before but they never listen, not to him. And now he knows his family isn’t dancing, they’re flailing. Thrashing. Burning. But the flames are silent and cold. They can’t touch him. He’s not a part of them.

Talia’s stopped talking and Peter recognizes her shadow amongst the others, embedded in her death throes. With a shaking hand, Peter feels at the table in front of him and finds the lighter his father had left there. He flicks the hard metal catch with his thumb and watches it spark blue-yellow embers before blooming into a curl of flame. He uses it to relight his birthday candles one by one, the wax drooping down now to touch the sickly looking white frosting of his cake.

The room stays dark despite the seven tiny flames, only the moon of Peter’s small, pale face visible. He sits at the table, wonders if he can get another chance at that wish.

_Please. Please. I don’t want to be alone._

And Peter has barely taken his next big breath when someone seems to emerge from the darkness in front of him. No, two someones, and Peter is so, so scared. He wants his mommy. He wants his daddy. He wants Talia. But they’re dead.

Peter’s alone with two strangers on the night of the lunar eclipse.

It’s a man and a woman and they stop a few feet in front of him. He’s tall and she is short. Her hair is long and red and her eyes are very large. She seems shocked to see him and Peter doesn’t know why, this is his house not hers. The man is familiar, he looks kind of like Talia’s husband, but broader, taller. He looks surprised, too, but there’s something else in his face that Peter can’t quite place.

The woman speaks first. “Peter?”

Peter startles at the sound of his own name and he squirms in his seat, looks around but there’s only darkness. He eyes them as they step closer but manages a quick, jerky nod.

The man and woman exchange a glance. “Do you remember us?” she asks.

Peter shakes his head but as soon as he does it feels like a lie. It frustrates him because he’s not lying. He doesn’t know them, he has no idea who they are.

“I’m Lydia. This is Derek.” The woman, Lydia, steps a little closer to him. Her eyes seem to stare right through him, Peter doesn’t like it. “We’re here to help. You have to come with us.”

That’s stupid. Peter’s not going anywhere with them. This is where his family is, this is where he should be.

Sensing his reluctance, the woman steps closer and Peter sees she’s not really a woman at all - she’s a teenager. A girl. Older than him but younger than Talia. She’s very pretty and Peter finds himself a little befuddled despite everything. “I think you want to come with us, Peter,” she says softly, “I don’t think you want to stay here.” And something about her tone, as gentle and persuasive as it is, tells Peter she doesn’t really like him very much. Which isn’t fair, she doesn’t even know him.

But she seems sincere and Peter gives her an uncertain but cautiously accepting look.

Lydia smiles a flickering, worried smile. “But for that to happen, you have to understand something, okay? But you’re really smart and I know you can do it.”

Peter understands _a lot_ of things. He may only be 7 but he reads a lot, books for kids a lot older than him. Even some college books. “What do I have to understand?”

The girl takes a slow breath and glances back at the man standing behind her who still hasn’t said anything. Peter’s not sure he likes him or the way he looks at him. But there’s nothing about the man himself that Peter finds off-putting in any way. “That none of this is real, Peter. You’re in a coma. A man named Valack did it to you and he’s been making you see and experience things to distract you, to keep you here.”

Peter frowns at that and shakes his head. Nuh uh, no way.

“Yes,” Lydia says. “Five months, Peter. We would have come sooner but ... well. We couldn’t.” That’s a lie, Peter thinks. “But now we’re here and you have to realize it, Peter, you have to understand that none of this is real and then you’ll be able to come with us and wake up.”

One of the candles on Peter’s birthday cake burns out with a soft tsst and grey curl of smoke. It tickles Peter’s nose. “It’s my birthday. It’s the lunar eclipse. It’s not safe to leave the basement.”

“No, it isn’t. Valack knows we’re trying to pull you away so he’s trying to make it harder, to make things more confusing. You’re 38 years old, Peter. You - “ Lydia purses his lips and stalls for a moment before continuing, “- you were brought to a place called Eichen House because you tried to do something bad and you got caught.”

Peter tries not to pout at that. He was always doing something bad it seemed, or things people thought were bad but Peter didn’t think were that bad at all, really. Still, he feels something sick and unpleasant start in the pit of his gut, and he wobbles a little in his seat. “No, no - you’re lying.” Eichen? That was where the really bad werewolves went. That was what mommy had told him.

Another candle burns out, making the room darker. Peter almost feels comforted by that.

“Peter.” His head lifts at the firmness to her tone, but she looks blurry and uneven, and Peter realizes his eyes are teary, full. It makes his face flush with embarrassment: crying like some baby. And maybe she sees them, too, because her tone seems to soften just a little. “You tried to kill Scott.”

“No, no, I helped Scott. And Chris Argent, and Stiles, and Derek. I helped.”

“You tried to kill Scott,” Lydia says again, “You thought he had the power that was rightfully yours. Valack can show you things. He says it’s things you need to see, he told us ... he just shows you yourself.”

Peter shakes his head again and again. He doesn’t want to hear it. He remembers the smell and taste of that green sludge on Chris’ lips; of Lydia’s hand - _oh God, her hand, there had been so many fingers on that hand_ \- on his sleeve; the feel of Scott’s pain draining from his body, pain that Peter had taken; Stiles’ fluttering, useless hands hovering over him; and Derek. Derek’s face in the headlights of his car, wishing him a happy birthday.

It had all been so hard, the doubt, the second guessing himself. He’d cared about them, he’d wanted to help them, it had been important. For the first time in so long it had really been important.

But it had all been a lie, a fake. The choices Peter had never made, the trust he’d never gave or been given. He’d cared about fantasies, delusions.

There was no pack, no family, not for Peter.

“You have to come with us, Peter,” Lydia says. “Deaton says if you stay here any longer, you’ll be trapped forever.”

Two more candles go with barely a sound and the smoke seems too thick for the sickly wicks to produce. “I belong here.” There was nothing for him out there anymore. Maybe there never had been.

Peter drops his gaze to his cake again and it seems as if things get dimmer, fainter. He wonders what will happen to him when Lydia and Derek are gone, when his mind eventually fades and decays. Surely, he can’t stay in this place forever, eventually even it would disappear. Then maybe Peter would disappear, too. That’s probably what everyone wanted anyway.

He feels a hand on his arm then, a gentle, soft hand. A real hand. Peter looks up to see Lydia crouching beside his chair and she still smells like flowers, like ivory soap. And she is beautiful and Peter feels wetness on his face because there’s just no room in his damn life for beauty like that.

“You called me back once,” Lydia says, and her voice is so gentle it makes Peter want to put his hands over his ears, “when I was lost in a place like this. You called out to me and I was able to find my way. Let us help you now.”

Peter looks up to see that Derek has stepped closer, too. Derek hasn’t said anything since they got here and Peter wonders if maybe Derek is fake, too, just another dream. He was supposed to be dead, after all. But standing in front of Peter, Derek looks anything but. He is beautiful, too, more like Talia than ever. And Talia had loved him once, hadn’t she?

When Derek reaches out to him, his palm up, Peter only hesitates for a moment before he takes it, his final three candles flickering out into darkness. He hears Lydia gasp, but Derek’s grip is steady and warm on his hand and he holds it tightly back.

And as Peter feels the hold of this place on him lessen, bringing him back to a world full of his mistakes and consequences, Derek’s arm moves around his shoulders and pulls him close. Peter doesn’t know what he will wake up to or what the future holds, if it’s Eichen or something more. He had made the right choices once, hadn’t he? For them. For Derek. It might not have been real but it had been real enough to him, and he’s seen what could have been. What could be. And maybe he doesn’t have to be the monster in the dark anymore. Maybe he doesn’t have to be alone.


End file.
